The Starting Line
THE STORY OF the first lunar expedition has been written so many times
that some people will doubt if there is anything fresh to be said about
it. Yet all the official reports and eyewitness accounts, the
on-the-spot recordings and broadcasts never, in my opinion, gave the
full picture.
They said a great deal about the discoveries that were made but very
little about the men who made them.
As captain of the Endeavour and thus commander of the British party, I
was able to observe a good many things you will not find in the history
books, and some though not all of them can now be told. One day, I
hope, my opposite numbers on the Goddard and the Ziolkovslci will give
their points of view. But as Commander Vandenburg is still on Mars and
Commander Krasnin is somewhere inside the orbit of Venus, it looks as
if we will have to wait a few more years for their memoirs.
Confession, it is said, is good for the soul. I shall certainly feel
much happier when I have told the true story behind the timing of the
first lunar flight, about which there has always been a good deal of
mystery.
As everyone knows, the American, Russian, and British ships were
assembled in the orbit of Space Station Three, five hundred miles above
the Earth, from components flown up by relays of freight rockets.
Though all the parts had been prefabricated, the assembly and testing
of the ships took over two years, by which time a great many people who
did not realize the complexity of the task were beginning to get
slightly impatient. They had seen dozens of photos and telecasts of
the three ships floating there in space beside Station Three,
apparently quite complete and ready to pull away from Earth at a
moment's notice. What the pictures didn't show was the careful and
tedious work still in progress as thousands of pipes, wires, motors,
and instruments were fitted and subjected to every conceivable test.
There was no definite target date for departure;
since the moon is always at approximately the same distance, you can
leave for it at almost any time you like once you are ready. It makes
practically no difference, from the point of view of fuel consumption,
if you blast off at full moon or new moon or at any time in between. We
were very careful to make no predictions about blast-off, though
everyone was always trying to get us to fix the time. So many things
can go wrong in a spaceship, and we were not going to say good-by to
Earth until we were ready down to the last detail.
I shall always remember the last commanders' conference, aboard the
space station, when we all announced that we were ready. Since it was
a co-operative venture, each party special ising in some particular
task, it had been agreed that we should all make our landings within
the same twenty-four-hour period, on the preselected site in the Mare
Imbrium. The details of the journey, however, had been left to the
individual commanders, presumably in the hope that we would not copy
each other's mistakes.
"I'll be ready," said Commander Vandenburg, "to make my first dummy
take-off at 0900 tomorrow. What about you, gentlemen? Shall we ask
Earth Control to stand by for all three of us?"
"That's O.K. by me," said Krasnin, who could never be convinced that
his American slang was twenty years out of date.
I nodded my agreement. It was true that one bank of fuel gauges was
still misbehaving, but that didn't really matter; they would be fixed
by the time the tanks were filled.
The dummy run consisted of an exact replica of a real blast-off, with
everyone carrying out the job he would do when the time came for the
genuine thing. We had practiced, of course, in mock-ups down on Earth,
but this was a perfect imitation of what would happen to us when we
finally took off for the moon. All that was missing was the roar of
the motors that would tell us that the voyage had begun.
We did six complete imitations of blast-off, took the ships to pieces
to eliminate anything that hadn't behaved perfectly, then did six more.
The Endeavour, the Goddard, and the Ziolkovsk~ were all in the same
state of serviceability. There now only remained the job of fueling
up, and we would be ready to leave.
The suspense of those last few hours is not something I would care to
go through again. The eyes of the world were upon us; departure time
had now been set, with an uncertainty of only a few hours. All the
final tests had been made, and we were convinced that our ships were as
ready as humanly possible.
It was then that I had an urgent and secret personal radio call from a
very high official indeed, and a suggestion was made which had so much
authority behind it that there was little point in pretending that it
wasn't an order. The first flight to the moon, I was reminded, was a
co-operative venture but think of the prestige if we got there first.
It need only be by a couple of hours.... I was shocked at the
suggestion, and said so. By this time Vandenburg and Krasnin were good
friends of mine, and we were all in this together. I made every excuse
I could and said that since our flight paths had already been computed
there wasn't anything that could be done about it. Each ship was
making the journey by the most economical route, to conserve fuel. If
we started together, we should arrive together within seconds.
Unfortunately, someone had thought of the answer to that. Our three
ships, fueled up and with their crews standing by, would be circling
Earth in a state of complete readiness for several hours before they
actually pulled away from their satellite orbits and headed out to the
moon. At our five-hundred-mile altitude, we took ninety-five minutes
to make one circuit of the Earth, and only once every revolution would
the moment be ripe to begin the voyage. If we could jump the gun by
one revolution, the others would have to wait that ninety-five minutes
before they could follow. And so they would land on the moon
ninety-five minutes behind us.... I won't go into the arguments, and
I'm still a little ashamed that I yielded and agreed to deceive my two
colleagues. We were in the shadow of Earth, in momentary eclipse, when
the carefully calculated moment came. Vandenburg and Krasnin, honest
fellows, thought I was going to make one more round trip with them
before we all set off together. I have seldom felt a bigger heel in my
life than when I pressed the firing key and felt the sudden thrust of
the motors as they swept me away from my mother world.
For the next ten minutes we had no time for anything but our
instruments, as we checked to see that the Endeavour was forging ahead
along her precomputed orbit. Almost at the moment that we finally
escaped from Earth and could cut the motors, we burst out of shadow
into the full blaze of the sun. There would be no more night until we
reached the moon, after five days of effortless and silent coasting
through space.
Already Space Station Three and the two other ships must be a thousand
miles behind. In eighty-five more minutes Vandenburg and Krasnin would
be back at the correct starting point and could take off after me, as
we had all planned. But they could never overcome my lead, and I hoped
they wouldn't be too mad at me when we met again on the moon.
I switched on the rear camera and looked back at the distant gleam of
the space station, just emerging from the shadow of Earth. It was some
moments before I realized that the Goddard and the Ziolkovski weren't
still floating beside it where I'd left them.... No; they were just
half a mile away, neatly matching my velocity. I stared at them in
utter disbelief for a second, before I realized that every one of us
had had the same idea.
"Why, you pair of double-crossers!" I gasped. Then I began to laugh
so much that it was several minutes before I dared call up a very
worried Earth Control and tell them that everything had gone according
to plan though in no case was it the plan that had been originally
announced.... We were all very sheepish when we radioed each other to
exchange mutual congratulations. Yet at the same time, I think
everyone was secretly pleased that it had turned out this way. For the
rest of the trip, we were never more than a few miles apart, and the
actual landing maneuvers were so well synchronised that our three
braking jets hit the moon simultaneously.
Well, almost simultaneously. I might make something of the fact that
the recorder tape shows I touched down two fifths of a second ahead of
Krasnin. But I'd better not, for Vandenburg was precisely the same
amount ahead of me.
On a quarter-of-a-million-mile trip, I think you could call that a
photo finish.... Robin Hood, F R S
We had landed early in the dawn of the long lunar day, and the slanting
shadows lay all around us, extending for miles across the plain. They
would slowly shorten as the sun rose higher in the sky, until at noon
they would almost vanish but noon was still five days away, as we
measured time on Earth, and nightfall was seven days later still. We
had almost two weeks of daylight ahead of us before the sun set and the
bluely gleaming Earth became the mistress of the sky.
There was little time for exploration during those first hectic days.
We had to unload the ships, grow accustomed to the alien conditions
surrounding us, learn to handle our electrically powered tractors and
scooters, and erect the igloos that would serve as homes, offices, and
labs until the time came to leave. At a pinch, we could live in the
spaceships, but it would be excessively uncomfortable and cramped. The
igloos were not exactly commodious, but they were luxury after five
days in space. Made of tough, flexible plastic, they were blown up
like balloons, and their interiors were then partitioned into separate
rooms. Air locks allowed access to the outer world, and a good deal of
plumbing linked to the ships' air-purification plants kept the
atmosphere breathable. Needless to say, the American igloo was the
biggest one, and had come complete with everything, including the
kitchen sink not to mention a washing machine, which we and the
Russians were always borrowing.
It was late in the "afternoon" about ten days after we had landed
before we were properly organized and could think about serious
scientific work. The first parties made nervous little forays out into
the wilderness around the base, familia rising themselves with the
territory. Of course, we already possessed minutely detailed maps and
photographs of the region in which we had landed, but it was surprising
how misleading they could sometimes be. What had been marked as a
small hill on a chart often looked like a mountain to a man toiling
along in a space suit, and apparently smooth plains were often covered
knee-deep with dust, which made progress extremely slow and tedious.
These were minor difficulties, however, and the low gravity which gave
all objects only a sixth of their terrestrial weight compensated for
much.
As the scientists began to accumulate their results and specimens, the
radio and TV circuits with Earth became busier and busier, until they
were in continuous operation. We were taking no chances; even if we
didn't get home, the knowledge we were gathering would do so.
The first of the automatic supply rockets landed two days before
sunset, precisely according to plan. We saw its braking jets flame
briefly against the stars, then blast again a few seconds before
touchdown. The actual landing was hidden from us, since for safety
reasons the dropping ground was three miles from the base. And on the
moon, three miles is well over the curve of the horizon.
When we got to the robot, it was standing slightly askew on its tripod
shock absorbers, but in perfect condition. So was everything aboard
it, from instruments to food. We carried the stores back to base in
triumph, and had a celebration that was really rather overdue. The men
had been working too hard, and could do with some relaxation.
It was quite a party; the high light, I think, was Commander Krasnin
trying to do a Cossack dance in a space suit. Then we turned our minds
to competitive sports, but found that, for obvious reasons, outdoor
activities were somewhat restricted. Games like croquet or bowls would
have been practical had we had the equipment; but cricket and football
were definitely out. In that gravity, even a football would go half a
mile if it were given a good kick and a cricket ball would never be
seen again.
Professor Trevor Williams was the first person to think of a practical
lunar sport. He was our astronomer, and also one of the youngest men
ever to be made a Fellow of the Royal Society, being only thirty when
this ultimate accolade was conferred upon him. His work on methods of
interplanetary navigation had made him world famous; less well known,
however, was his skill as a toxophilite. For two years in succession
he had been archery champion for Wales. I was not surprised,
therefore, when I discovered him shooting at a target propped up on a
pile of lunar slag.
The bow was a curious one, strung with steel control wire and shaped
from a laminated plastic bar. I wondered where Trevor had got hold of
it, then remembered that the robot freight rocket had now been
cannibalised and bits of it were appearing in all sorts of unexpected
places. The arrows, however, were the really interesting feature. To
give them stability on the airless moon, where, of course, feathers
would be useless, Trevor had managed to rifle them. There was a little
gadget on the bow that set them spinning, like bullets, when they were
fired, so that they kept on course when they left the bow.
Even with this rather makeshift equipment, it was possible to shoot a
mile if one wished to.
However, Trevor didn't want to waste arrows, which were not easy to
make; he was more interested in seeing the sort of accuracy he could
get. It was uncanny to watch the almost flat trajectory of the arrows:
they seemed to be traveling parallel with the ground. If he wasn't
careful, someone warned Trevor, his arrows might become lunar
satellites and would hit him in the back when they completed their
orbit.
The second supply rocket arrived the next day, but this time things
didn't go according to plan. It made a perfect touchdown, but
unfortunately the radar-controlled automatic pilot made one of those
mistakes that such simpleminded machines delight in doing. It spotted
the only really unclimbable hill in the neighborhood, locked its beam
onto the summit of it, and settled down there like an eagle descending
upon its mountain eerie.
Our badly needed supplies were five hundred feet above our heads, and
in a few hours night would be falling. What was to be done?
About fifteen people made the same suggestion at once, and for the next
few minutes there was a great scurrying about as we rounded up all the
nylon line on the base. Soon there was more than a thousand yards of
it coiled in neat loops at Trevor's feet while we all waited
expectantly. He tied one end to his arrow, drew the bow, and aimed it
experimentally straight toward the stars.
The arrow rose a little more than half the height of the cliff; then
the weight of the line pulled it back.
"Sorry," said Trevor.
"I just can't make it. And don't forget we'd have to send up some kind
of grapnel as well, if we want the end to stay up there."
There was much gloom for the next few minutes, as we watched the coils
of line fall slowly back from the sky. The situation was really
somewhat absurd. In our ships we had enough energy to carry us a
quarter of a million miles from the moon yet we were baffled by a puny
little cliff If we had time, we could probably find a way up to the top
from the other side of the hill, but that would mean traveling several
miles.
It would be dangerous, and might well be impossible, during the few
hours of daylight that were left.
Scientists were never baffled for long, and too many ingenious
(sometimes over ingenious minds were working on the problem for it to
remain unresolved. But this time it was a little more difficult, and
only three people got the answer simultaneously. Trevor thought it
over, then said noncommittally, "Well, it's worth trying."
The preparations took a little while, and we were all watching
anxiously as the rays of the sinking sun crept higher and higher up the
sheer cliff looming above us. Even if Trevor could get a line and
grapnel up there, I thought to myself, it would not be easy making the
ascent while encumbered with a space suit. I have no head for heights,
and was glad that several mountaineering enthusiasts had already
volunteered for the job.
At last everything was ready. The line had been carefully arranged so
that it would lift from the ground with the mini mum of hindrance. A
light grapnel had been attached to the line a few feet behind the
arrow;
we hoped that it would catch in the rocks up there and wouldn't let us
down all too literally when we put our trust in it.
This time, however, Trevor was not using a single arrow. He attached
four to the line, at two-hundred-yard intervals. And I shall never
forget that incongruous spectacle of the space-suited figure, gleaming
in the last rays of the setting sun, as it drew its bow against the
sky.
The arrow sped toward the stars, and before it had lifted more than
fifty feet Trevor was already fitting the second one to his improvised
bow. It raced after its predecessor, carrying the other end of the
long loop that was now being hoisted into space. Almost at once the
third followed, lifting its section of line and I swear that the fourth
arrow, with its section, was on the way before the first had noticeably
slackened its momentum.
Now that there was no question of a single arrow lifting the entire
length of line, it was not hard to reach the required altitude. The
first two times the grapnel fell back; then it caught firmly somewhere
up on the hidden plateau and the first volunteer began to haul himself
up the line. It was true that he weighed only about thirty pounds in
this low gravity, but it was still a long way to fall.
He didn't. The stores in the freight rocket started coming down the
cliff within the next hour, and everything essential had been lowered
before nightfall. I must confess, however, that my satisfaction was
considerably abated when one of the engineers proudly showed me the
mouth organ he had sent from Earth. Even then I felt certain that we
would all be very tired of that instrument before the long lunar night
had ended.... But that, of course, was hardly Trevor's fault. As we
walked back to the ship together, through the great pools of shadow
that were flowing swiftly over the plain, he made a proposal that, I am
sure, has puzzled thousands of people ever since the detailed maps of
the first lunar expedition were published.
After all, it does seem a little odd that a flat and lifeless plain,
broken by a single small mountain, should now be labeled on all the
charts of the moon as Sherwood Forest.